


the blade itself incites to deeds of violence

by autumntales



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, butcher army arc, gratuitous references to greek mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29097459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumntales/pseuds/autumntales
Summary: "This is what you mourn as you prepare to meet the self-proclaimed army coming to kill you; you mourn the loss of the peaceful life you never really got to have."AKA before the butcher army arrives, technoblade reflects on short-lived peace
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	the blade itself incites to deeds of violence

**Author's Note:**

> 1) the title is a quote from the Odyssey 2) i'm probably making some reaches with my character interpretation but this is fairly canon compliant otherwise 3) this is my first time posting on ao3 and i am so very lost so if i've tagged anything wrong or there are any issues pls let me know!

The warning comes before the Butcher Army does, so you at least have time to prepare, and to mourn. Not for yourself—you have no plans to die. Never have and never will, you’re sure of that. As you root through your chests, exchanging supplies and gathering up weapons, you make sure to grab the totem. You never die, and you’re as sure of that as you can be. You are, well, a little less sure of that nowadays.

Which is part of the reason you decided to come out here to these snow-dusted hills and take a break in the first place. You were gonna settle down, maybe do a little farming, catch up on some light reading, bond with your only remaining friend. Look how long that lasted.

There is a quiet part of your mind that whispers _a blade used to till the earth is still a blade_. Yeah, it was probably stupid of you to believe you could carve out a quiet enough space in this world for you to retire. But you tried. Doesn’t that count for something?

This is what you mourn as you prepare to meet the self-proclaimed army coming to kill you; you mourn the loss of the peaceful life you never really got to have. Isn’t there some story that goes like this? War-weary hero turns his back on his old life of adventure to retire peacefully somewhere far away and then nobody lets him fucking do that. This would be so much easier for everyone if they just let you do this.

But nobody will just leave you alone. Case in point: Ghostbur, who is currently knocking at your door.

You call out, “Ghostbur, this is not a good time.”

“Knock knock,” he says, unhelpfully. After a few hectic moments of entirely useless back and forth you yank the door open and he smiles at you. “Welcome,” you say, returning to your potion brewing as Ghostbur drifts lethargically inside. He tries to offer you some blue. You are really not in the mood for blue, and you try to explain as much, but you don’t think he’s really grasping the full gravity of the situation here. He at least helps you make some potions, though.

Honestly, it’s nice when he’s around. If you were not about to be hunted down, you would enjoy the comfort of his presence a little more. He’s kind in a distant, disconnected way, different than Wilbur was. Most of the time he doesn’t even sound like Wilbur did. It’s odd. You like them both, but in some ways you’re more protective of Ghostbur than you ever were of Wilbur. Maybe you’re jealous. Ghostbur got to walk away, after all.

Though he is dead, so. Maybe not _too_ jealous. And dead by Phil’s hand, which is something the two of you don’t talk about. The two of you also don’t talk about the festival. It’s quiet here, sometimes.

Ghostbur finishes with some potions and spins to hand them to you, stretching his hands out so agonizingly slowly. “Ghostbur, you gotta get out of here,” you say. “People are coming to kill me—”

But he couldn’t care less. All he wants is the sheep. “I’ll go far away, if you want,” he assures you. “But it’s fine. Nothing can hurt me, I’m already dead.”

“Uh huh. Just go hide.” You press the lead for the sheep into his hands and usher him out of the door. Hopefully he’ll get clear of your house before the others show up. He doesn’t need to be a part of this.

There’s another story you’re remembering now. War-weary hero, stolen from his home and his peace by the sea, will be able to find a place so distant and removed from the water if he only picks up an oar and marches inland until someone mistakes it for a winnowing fan. There is a land that has never known the violence of the ocean. There is a land that can make something other than what you know it to be. Ghostbur has found that land. He is both the tool made unrecognizable and the one who can’t see it for what it really is.

You tried to walk far enough away that your weapons would be unrecognizable, but the problem is that no one here knows any other name for them. Ghostbur got out early enough. The rest of you are stuck. The rest of you can’t forget—as is evident, of course, by the vengeful army coming to kill you.

You close the door behind Ghostbur and creep over to the window to keep an eye out. You’re going to miss this place and the tenuous peace you managed to till for a little while. It isn’t quiet enough out here, but it’s close. It’s easier to block out the voices when there aren’t any enemies around to tempt their anger. Maybe if you could just explain, make them understand that you staying away is best for everyone because of what lives and dies and festers in your mind—but then again, you’ve tried that already. After the festival, where you killed Tubbo and then everyone. Because, yeah, even you can admit that was pretty bad. The worst and the best part about it was that once you stood alone on a fire-scorched and blood-gummed platform, it was finally silent.

Afterwards, you tried to explain. You tried to be diplomatic, use words instead of fists or whatever it was they wanted from you. You told Tommy, calmly, of course, that you were peer pressured. You weren’t lying. You just didn’t specify where the pressure was coming from—the crowd around you, or the crowd within you.

If he had been just angry at you then, you might have been convinced that he believed you. But the truth of the matter is, when you two faced each other in the pit, you could tell by the way his punches got sloppier and more desperate that he was scared. And then you had faltered just a little bit, for just a second. Just long enough of a slip to hear the cacophony of voices rise up again to intercede. Sometimes you think your body knows things that the rest of you doesn't. The voices are in your head, sure, but they’re also in your hands and your blood and your teeth. It’s so difficult to point out and mark where you and the voices divide. If there is any division at all. 

So you explained, but it didn’t matter. Most of the time, everyone being terrified of you is a good thing. It keeps them from trying to mess with you. It keeps them at least a little apprehensive of propping up yet another tyrant. It was supposed to keep them from coming after you when you slunk away to retire.

Guess some things don’t last. Oh well, onto another day. If they see you as nothing more than an agent of violence, then fine, you’ll be their self-fulfilling prophecy. If they’re going to try to hunt you down and kill you, then you’ll make them sorry they ever dared to tempt your retaliation. Some might say that makes you just the same as them, but it doesn’t. The difference between you and them is that you’re going to win.

You slip a hand into your pocket and feel the secret shape of the totem press against your palm. If you falter, other forces will intercede. All this? This distance you put between yourself and them, this flimsy attempt at peace--it was only a moment of faltering. Through the window, you glimpse the top of a shining purple helmet rising over the crest of a nearby hill. The Butcher Army approaches, indeed. But you’re not the pig. You’re not even the butcher. You are, always have been and and always will be, the blade.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :)


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